


time, made sharp and sweet

by oriflamme



Series: robots. robots everywhere [25]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Being Whirl Is Suffering, Body Dysphoria, Cyclonus Is An Ancient Awkward Romantic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Plug n Play Mention, Self-Esteem Issues, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (IDW), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Weird Robot Biology, valveplug, wireplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 08:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17280398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oriflamme/pseuds/oriflamme
Summary: Whirl is convenient. Around. Geographically available.He casually moves into Cyclonus's place and forgets to leave one morning. Smooth. As. Slag.





	time, made sharp and sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [applechime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/applechime/gifts).



> yo apple you want some pain? :D

Whirl is convenient. Around. Geographically available.

He casually moves into Cyclonus's place and forgets to leave one morning. Smooth. As. Slag.

Not like he's a great roommate or anything. When he gets antsy, he forgets that doors like to be open before you use them. His neck is just long enough to stick it obnoxiously into other peoples' business. He dumps spare parts and assorted weaponry on his designated desk in the main room, and lets the detritus stack until he has a nice pile of chaos. It never quite crosses the line into 'messy' - mostly because who owns enough crap to _make_ a mess, in this day and age? - but he borrowed at least one of his tinkering screwdrivers from Brainstorm, which means his corner of the room is officially in violation of the Kimian Non-conventional Weapons Act.

But hey. Whirl knows for a fact that his best review on AutoRoomBots (3/5 stars, left by Roadbuster) ended on a middling-to-high note with 'alright, but would not room again,' with the rest redacted by order of the Wreckers' official censorbot. Now, whether Cyclonus knows what the internet _is_ remains up for debate. The _point_ is, Cyclonus should have known better. The signs were there. He was warned, and by letting Whirl in he basically brought this on himself. Once Whirl has a foot in the door, he doesn't let go until everything's ruined, the sky's turned red, people are dying, and at least three major city-states go up in flames.

Yeah. He's insufferable like that.

It's not like he has a lot to offer, either. What you see is what you get! And there's not a lot to see. They stripped him down when they booted him from the Wreckers – no more heavy armor, no more integrated weaponry. Just the guns in his cockpit and a stilt-legged, rail-thin frame. All of the angles, none of the bulk. All the sass, none of the aft.

He was much of a looker before that, either. You kinda need a face to be a looker, and Whirl hasn't had one of those in a couple millennia. But scrap like that matters less when your job description hinges on gleeful, suicidal violence and the other mechs involved aren't interested in much except another body and making you shut up. Convenience and a running mouth – the saving grace of Whirl's interfacing prospects for the past five million-odd years.

But Cyclonus has standards. _Eugh_. If he had his way, he'd probably spend the rest of eternity staring stoically out the window like a funeral walking, retracing the thin scars across his face and wallowing in his internal monologue like some kind of film noir detective, and Whirl might have to actually think about things.

That never ends well. For anyone.

Thankfully, Whirl has legs for days. He's a lean, mean fighting machine, he has more time on his claws than a chronosmith, and he hasn't known when to stop pushing his luck since they took away his watches. Cyclonus is strong enough to bend him like a pretzel, and Whirl figures he'll at least get a few good clanging dents out of it before the whole thing blows up on him.

So after the first five times Cyclonus walks past him draped seductively over the table with his patented come-hither squint, Whirl sprawls out on Cyclonus's berth instead and lies in wait.

Cyclonus stops in the doorway, nonplussed. He stares at Whirl for five seconds.

Whirl stares back and waggles his antenna alluringly. This plan is flawless. Foolproof. Somewhere, Prowl is weeping in envy of this apex-level strategy.

Cyclonus narrows his eyes.

Then the fragger tries to lay down in Whirl's recharge slab instead.

 _Why does Whirl have to do everything around here?!_ With a screech, Whirl tucks his legs under him, kicks off the berth, and flings himself across the gap. He hits Cyclonus like a weaponized slinky, wrapping around his limbs with flailing, laser-guided precision.

Cyclonus would probably be within his rights to dropkick Whirl into next week for the surprise alone. That's the nice thing about being surrounded by trigger happy, PTSD-riddled mechs - never a dull moment. Whirl would know, seeing as how he's one of the trigger happy, PTSD-riddled mechs.

(One of these days, he'll convince Rung to declare him the undisputed king thereof. The competition is steep. Until then, he'll take what he can get.)

But Cyclonus catches him with a grunt and stops the force of Whirl's tackle from knocking them off the berth by digging his foot into the floor. Whirl's knee is hitched somewhere over Cyclonus's shoulder - probably not supposed to bend like that, but sometimes that's just how it is - so they're a little top heavy at the moment. "What - Whirl, what are you doing?" he huffs. Even his perplexed expression is barely more than a crinkle of tension around his optics. He tips his head to the side with a faint grimace, trying to locate Whirl's not-face in the tangle of limbs.

Whirl cycles a deep vent in preparation for another ululating screech. It's not a real party until Ultra Magnus barges in to serve you a noise complaint.

Unfortunately, he's made the critical error of giving Cyclonus's ancient old man brain time to process. Without warning, Cyclonus's expression clears, and he stands. Which Whirl is all for, until Cyclonus dumps him onto his aft. "I have no attachment to either side of the room, if you need to switch," he says, with the air of someone who doesn't quite understand why someone would have an attachment to either side of the room to begin with, and is too indifferent to make the effort to care.

Then he walks back out.

"Come back here and fight me!" Whirl shrieks at the closing door.

-

They make it all the way onto the recharge slab before Whirl realizes he's fragged this one right up. 

Cyclonus moves like a glacier - deliberate, slow, frowning in concentration as he backs up onto the berth. Whirl jitters like he's about to rattle out of his armor, pushing and cajoling Cyclonus along with enough forward momentum that they'd tip right over if Cyclonus hadn't devoted his functioning to thwarting Whirl's awesome and excellent ideas. The clawed tips of his fingers graze along the underside of Whirl's arms, tracing up and down, holding Whirl at arm's length and steadying them with frustrating ease, and Whirl is too keyed up to interrupt this momentum.

Do you know how much momentum it takes to get someone as fragging ancient as Cyclonus going? _A lot_ , okay. Whirl is not subtle, and it still took months of sustained effort before Whirl managed to hammer it through his skull that yes, this is about interfacing, no, Whirl doesn't want to swap berths for the bajillionth time while Cyclonus patiently stares out the window, _yes,_ Cyclonus is a key component in these plans, ** _no_** , that's not a euphemism, except that it totally is -

Hahaha. Sunk cost who?

Anyway. For someone who talks a big game about how he comes to Whirl when he wants the cold, hard, unadulterated truth, Cyclonus sure is allergic to being straightforward. Even after Whirl threw up his not-hands, got right in Cyclonus's face, and yelled, "WANNA FRAG?!" so hard it glitched his lousy vocalizer, Cyclonus just sat back, brow furrowed, and proceeded to contemplate that for the rest of the day with grave frown #7.

"Is that a no?" Whirl demanded. Because _holy slag_ , if Cyclonus isn't interested, it would be great to just establish that. For the record.

"You tell me," Cyclonus replied, which is the non-answer he gives when he's stalling for time, and Whirl left him to his personal brooding time.

But at least Whirl got the message across. Cyclonus spends the next week staring out the window with a vengeance, his optics tracking Whirl's daily tromp through the main room in the reflection. His face looks twice as hollow and gaunt when Whirl only ever sees it against the backdrop of the dark of space. When Whirl hauls him out of the habsuite for their weekly mandated socialization session (Earth movie night at Rewind's place), muttering under his vents all the way, Cyclonus fixates on Whirl's claw latched around his wrist, and doesn't move to free himself after Whirl tows him to their usual spot at the back of the crowd. Whirl scoffs and ignores Cyclonus's silent, unwavering stare, and totally isn't hyperaware of the wrist hanging in the rigid loop of his claw all through the movie session. Cyclonus is so absorbed in slag knows what that he 1) misses out on nibbles and 2) fails to insist on his usual request for musicals and old Russian cinema. Whirl is forced to send his holomatter avatar up to pester Rewind until he adds << А зори здесь тихие>> and <<Два бойца>> before << Bande à part>> to the night's lineup, out of the bleeding goodness of his spark.

One of these days, Whirl and Swerve are going to need to duke it out over who really controls the queue, because Swerve is an undiscriminating aft who has no taste and will consume any media put in front of him. But for now their stalemate continues. Mostly because Deadpool is good. Damn him.

"…What the slag are we watching?" Cyclonus asks, the first indication that he's emerged from his brooding coma.

"Hush, I'm taking notes," Whirl says. At least three people around them shudder in horror. When Cyclonus silently retracts his hand, Whirl lets go, interlocking his claws with a _clack_ as he leans in over his crossed legs.

-

The point is.

He kinda lost the point there. Haha.

The _point_ is, Whirl thought he could keep this convenient and casual, sunk cost be damned. After a while it was a challenge, and Whirl never backs down from one of those.

But now Cyclonus has…shifted. Like a continent rearranging itself, he watches Whirl, intent and engrossed, as though Whirl is something curious and prickly that he needs to reassess before he makes contact. At the shooting range, their practice schedules seem to overlap more and more; Whirl blithely banters at Cyclonus - adrenaline and a good gun always make him chatty - and only belatedly realizes that he's sprouted a grim, Cyclonus-shaped second shadow wherever he goes. The guy's like a fragging persistence hunter: he doesn't give up.

And when Cyclonus makes direct eye contact, he makes it with a vengeance. Whirl can only announce that it's a staring contest so many times before everyone else in the bar catches on to the fact that Cyclonus just likes to gaze into Whirl's deformed optic like it's going out of style.

It makes Whirl itch like he's square in a Con's targeting reticle. _Months,_ it took, to get to this point, actual fragging months just to get Cyclonus on the same recharge slab as him. Because Cyclonus thinks that bizarre, wacky moves like resting a hand on Whirl's shoulder for no reason, or memorizing Whirl's drink order at Swerve's, or standing so close that Whirl's chest almost jams against his when he tries to turn around are somehow acceptable substitutes for fragging each other into stasis and getting the urge out of Whirl's system. (They are _not_ , as it happens.) Whirl twitches away, suspicious and spooked, and Cyclonus adapts. He finds the sweet spot where Whirl forgets to be hyperaware of the lurking gargoyle all up in his personal space, and plants himself there.

This has lasted for like. Three planets and four minor Rodimus-brand adventures (trademark pending). Sure, Whirl and Cyclonus usually get stuck together in the field because they scare the spit out of anyone dumb enough to cross them. But people are starting to talk.

His only saving grace is that Cyclonus is even more allergic to PDA than Whirl is; Cyclonus would probably be thrilled to spend the rest of his days standing in companionable silence with exactly 2.3 meters between them. Whirl's the dumbaft idiot who unthinkingly slings an arm around Cyclonus's shoulders and encourages the sideways looks they keep getting. He's the one who says yes when Cyclonus carefully, formally invites him down to Swerve's or on shore leave trips, unobtrusively accompanying Whirl while he tears up the town.

He's the one who gets greedy. Like a sucking chest wound. Even when he knows better.

If Whirl's not careful, he might get used to this…camaraderie. Or whatever it is. The way he can tilt his helm back over his shoulder to make sardonic comments and Cyclonus will be right there, his red optics unreadable as he waits for Whirl to get to the point.

-

(It could be worse! Cyclonus could actually try to _talk_ about all this. Thankfully, in the war between Cyclonus's tight-lipped stoicism and his disturbing sincerity, the stoicism is currently winning.

If he expects Whirl to infer the obvious from context, Whirl can take cheerful refuge in blissful ignorance.)

-

But yeah. Of course Cyclonus had to go and make it weird. Of course.

He draws Whirl close as they hit the berth, slow and deliberate and careful as he fits a hand along Whirl's too-thin waist, and all of this is getting dangerously, horrifyingly close to tender. All the soft touches and gentle proximity pings are _illegal,_ and neither Whirl, a law-abiding citizen, nor Ultra Magnus will stand for this flagrant disregard for the law. Whirl wants to arch into it and squirm away at the same time, because clearly there's been some kind of mistake. His thoughts desperately twist away on tangents to cope as he does everything in his power not to think about it.

He just needs to - push through. Wham, bam, one and done, and then they can never speak of this again like the mature mechs they are.

If all else fails he can make it a fight. No one can beat Whirl for starting a fight; he is simply the best there is.

Before Cyclonus can get any further, Whirl leverages what height he has over Cyclonus to roll him down, scraping his cockpit against Cyclonus's chest harder than he strictly needs to in the hopes that Cyclonus will take the hint, and pings the manual override for his interface panel so they can get busy. "Knock knock!" Whirl says, cheerfully, unable to repress a little bounce as he taps a knee against the inside of Cyclonus's thigh.

Which is when everything comes screeching to a halt. Cyclonus glances down, frowning like he's never seen a valve before, and says, "Hm."

That's not a good 'hm.' Whirl does not like the sound of that 'hm.' In fact, that's his least favorite monosyllable as of right now this second. " _What_ ," Whirl says, his voice even flatter than normal. The empuratee monotone is exactly what this moment calls for.

Cyclonus has the gall to keep tracing the crook of Whirl's waist, the soft scratch of claws scarily gentle on the seam and the wires bundled in between armor. "We are configured similarly," he observes.

Now, see, that's just classic Cyclonus! Stepping right in the pile of slag that is empurata trauma with wild, oblivious abandon.

It took Whirl a while to catch on, because he and Cyclonus are two very different kinds of blunt, and the two don't always mesh well. Like how when Cyclonus says all of Whirl's shoddy, defective, painfully awful excuses for clocks look the same, he's not _trying_ to tactlessly rub the fact that Whirl doesn't have the fine dexterity for intricate, beautiful, chronometric work anymore in Whirl's not-face. He just literally means that they look the same to him. That he doesn't see the same mistakes that Whirl can. When he asks why Whirl doesn't at least replace his hands, he actually wants and listens to Whirl's sad-face boo-hoo explanation as if it matters. Sometimes his questions are so obtuse that Whirl suspects Cyclonus learned his social skills from an ancient computer manual, but he's not deliberately striving to get punched like Whirl does on a daily basis.

It's still annoying when Cyclonus asks questions that hit too close to Whirl's real buttons. But when Whirl can be bothered to repress his automatic response, he can grudgingly tell where the disconnect comes from. So when it happens, he usually just chucks a shitty clock between Cyclonus's horns and calls it even.

And all of that is beside the point, because wait what did he just say.

"What?" Whirl repeats, except it comes out more of a 'wot,' and because Cyclonus is straightforward like that he promptly pops his interface panel off to demonstrate. Literally pops it off, with his hand, because he's old as hell -

And lo and behold. They _are_ configured the same way. Not a single spike between them!

Whirl smacks a claw against his not-face, and lets himself topple sideways onto the floor. "Hnnnnnrgrgh," he tells the ceiling, dragging both claws over the edges of his helm before flopping out in despair.

Cyclonus sits up and stares down over the side of the berth, his expression just a little too unimpressed to call it patient.

"If you say it was an 'inessential body part' and it was against your religion to replace it, I will lose my mind," Whirl informs him. "And also need to know _who_ and _how_ and **_why_** , so I know who not to frag off in the future."

That wins him an arched brow. "I never possessed one. It was not a standardized component at the time," Cyclonus says, mildly. 

Whirl groans. "Oh, come on."

In a week or so, this is gonna be _priceless_. If he weren't dying of frustration, Whirl would be dying of laughter right now. He kicks his legs out in another silent, melodramatic protest.

Finally Cyclonus asks, "Are you quite done?"

Whirl sticks one foot straight up in the air.

"Are you coming back up here?"

Well, he's tempted to languish a little more, just to see how exasperated Cyclonus needs to get before he manually slots the panel back on and stalks away. Alas, Whirl's invested too much time and effort into getting laid today to give up now. With a deeply put-upon sigh, Whirl slings a leg over the edge of the recharge slab and clambers back up.

Now, though, he has - reservations about this. Cyclonus steadies him with a hand on each hip and a too patient, too _knowing_ look, his thumbs slipping into the gaps and finding the sensitive wires there. At least when he had Wrecker grade armor, people had to work for that.

Whirl can't quite conceal the squirm of discomfort this time, and Cyclonus retracts his fingers politely, like a slagging gentlemech. It would be easier if he just dug in and went to town. But Whirl has bigger problems than Cyclonus's weird, soft touch and warm EM field right now - his options for how to contribute to this shindig just narrowed sharply.

Whirl can feel the drop coming. The point where he remembers that he has no hands, no mouth, no fragging _face_ , and his frame is a hideous, nauseating hunk of scrap. All those, y'know, insignificant little details that, combined with his personality, make him a last resort. A pity frag. You'd think Cyclonus would've caught on earlier with all that staring he does, but no one has ever claimed Cyclonus has good taste.

He'd rather get the jump on it! Snap, and start throwing nasty, hooked little barbs until Cyclonus remembers why Whirl is supposed to be a thing that's easy to hate. If Whirl throws this away on purpose, it's fine!

His tanks roil, preemptively queasy. 

Cyclonus watches him. Whirl let too much leak out from behind his cavalier front, and now Cyclonus is reassessing his approach, his optics dark red and too sharp. He sees too fragging much. Whirl needs less thinking and more doing. "What would you prefer?" Cyclonus asks directly. As if clear, frank _communication_ might clear up the problem. Amateur.

Whirl could curl up in a ball and roll away down the corridor. Unfortunately, he's a sucker for pain. He snorts out a harsh laugh, his vocalizer sharp and popping with static, and flaps a not-hand pointedly in front of Cyclonus's face. "I mean, we've only got a few options here!" he says, still laughing.

Most of said options make Whirl look like an aft. Reciprocation is kind of hard when his claws can't stimulate wires for slag. No one really wants a heavy-duty claw anywhere near their delicate bits. Oooh, a barely articulated claw seductively scrabbling around for a surface it can stroke, oooh. Hot. His intake system is nine-tenths proboscis, and opening up a wider channel would be a) awkward, and b) pathetic. It's hard to let someone sit on your face when you're severely lacking in the face department. He could rattle off the whole list for Cyclonus's benefit so they can skip the protests, but they're already teetering on the fine line between hilarity and humiliation, here.

Cyclonus's mouth settles on a stern frown of disapproval. He was probably forged looking like he swallowed something sour. "You are not incapable," he says, and oh look! An opening.

Whirl demonstrates with his claws. It's funny, because he can't make them look like anything but what they are. But he mimes one closed claw smacking up against the edges of the other as it tries to pass through. "This is your foot. This is your mouth. You get the picture, or do I need to make it more literal?" he snaps folding his arms under his chest. "Look. What do _you_ want? Just be warned, the chela-belas can only bend so many ways! Seams are not claw-friendly! The hinges _will_ pinch! I-" 

Before he can pick up steam, voice increasingly jagged and agitated, Cyclonus cuts off Whirl's rant. "Whirl," he says, unyielding steel in his voice, and it's not fair that he can sound measured and patient at the same time. As if this isn't already a train wreck.

Whirl can't look Cyclonus in the eye, suddenly. When he sits back on his heels he snaps the interface panel shut. Cyclonus follows, rising up on his elbows to keep Whirl in arm's reach. Whirl catalogues the momentary hesitation before Cyclonus raises a hand to hover over Whirl's side again. "Will you let me?" he asks, formally, with a strange, watchful weight behind his field.

Still not quite touching him. Waiting for permission, or some slag like that?

Whatever. Whirl wants to sulk and scream and lash out all at the same time – so he takes the path of least resistance and goes limp on top of Cyclonus. Cyclonus grunts as Whirl lets him take over propping up their combined weight. "You need a plug-in? 'Least then you'll get something out of this. I'm not an absolute aft," Whirl chatters, bright and stiff. He narrows his optic into a smile as he forcefully pries open the indent under his cockpit where the plugs and ports are. Not like _that_ 's in the best shape, either, but it functions. He can ignore whatever fragged up slag is floating around on the surface of Cyclonus's processor, and Cyclonus can get a kick out of the sensory feedback, and then mission 'pretend none of this ever happened' can get underway.

" _Whirl_ ," Cyclonus repeats, interrupting his rambling train of thought. Whoops, was he vocalizing all that? Hahahahaha _frag._ He curls a hand overs Whirl's – Whirl jolts like he's been shot, which is _stupid_ – and lets the cable retract through his fingers when Whirl freezes.

Cyclonus's eyes darken another shade. Too perceptive, too intent. Whirl keeps the cuss words internal this time. "Later, perhaps," Cyclonus finishes, after another cryptic, stone-faced pause. He skims the side of Whirl's cockpit next, and Whirl's not stupid. Whirl got twitchy about the hips, so now Cyclonus is on a quest to find a spot that won't set Whirl off. A fool's errand if Whirl ever saw one.

Later. Ha. That would imply this lasts any longer than it has to. Or a next time. Hopefully Cyclonus comes to his senses before then. If he doesn't stop looking at Whirl like he's absorbed in memorizing his frame, Whirl's gonna have to call in a favor with Rung for the poor bastard. 

Whirl writhes in full-body flinch, a sickening lurch, and covers for it by snapping a claw around Cyclonus's wrist to tug it back down to his waist. Another laugh that comes out too bitter. "Bold of you to assume -" he manages, flaring the armor plate a little so he can get Cyclonus's fingers inside.

It's better, once the sting of claws is back in his internals. Whirl can shut down his optic and pretend Cyclonus is about to tear out his wires instead. Easier to deal with than careful way Cyclonus keeps touching him. But Cyclonus smooths his hand along Whirl's other side, his grip firm and gentle as he applies reassuring pressure to keep Whirl balanced on top of him, and Whirl's caught between tensing up and arching into it like the sucker he is. He tucks his helm down as Cyclonus sinks his claws deeper inside, but that just means he gets the blast from Cyclonus's gaping cheek vents along the back of his neck, warm and steady, while his fingers map out the underside of Whirl's armor.

 _Just jerk back and let him rip it off_ , a rogue thought insists. Whirl curls up harder, helicopter blades angling up over his back, and digs the round edge of his forehelm into Cyclonus's chest.

Cyclonus stops, mid-stroke. "This is acceptable?" he asks, with the faintest note of dry irony under the mild voice. Slagger.

"Yes, okay!" Whirl fires back, onlining his optic to glare at Cyclonus. He thumps a claw against his shoulder with a bounce. "Come on, mech, you have claws! Use 'em!" Like. Seriously? Cyclonus can promise to kill a guy when he least expects it and jam his horn into another mech's eye socket, but nooo, getting a little rough is completely out of the question?

(If Whirl thinks about it too hard, the softness is terrifying.)

"That would seem counterproductive," Cyclonus observes, and Whirl is about to accuse him of being boring, boring, boring when Cyclonus kneads deep into his waist and twists, and Whirl spits up a blurt of static as the sensor bundle there pulses in electric, aching approval.

It's a good shudder, this time. His balance tilts, and Whirl's claw shoots out to clamp down on the edge of the berth when he sways. Unhurried and unaffected, Cyclonus works to reduce that particular wire bundle to a tender mess of shuddering charge, until the whole area is hypersensitive. When his elbow joint wobbles like the traitor it is, Cyclonus pulls him closer. He never takes his eyes off Whirl's.

Too close. Too close. At this rate, Whirl really is going to be screwed. He hisses shakily and fumbles with a useless claw for – something. Something to do. If he can make this even, maybe Cyclonus's gentle attention will feel a little less like falling and Whirl will retain some of his (entirely hypothetical) self-respect in the morning. He drags his claw down along Cyclonus's front, cringing all the way at the ridiculous clatter. But maybe Cyclonus gets revved up by grotesque parodies of intimacy. Seems like the most rational explanation for the past few months –

Whirl's claw bumps over an uneven surface.

That's, uh. Not armor.

Which is about when he realizes that Cyclonus never reattached his interface panel. All the vulnerable wires and lines leading down around Cyclonus's valve are exposed, open to the air. Whirl jerks his claw away on reflex, and this time his hiss overlaps with the stifled sound that escapes Cyclonus.

The numbing overstimulation in the crook of his waist must be making Whirl's processor dizzy. "What-" he starts to say, before the word-making machine in his brain fizzles out. "Uh. Frag. Is that off-limits?" Too wistful. Frag. If he weren't busy melting into a muddle of shaky limbs, he'd say something offensive to cancel it out.

"Mm," Cyclonus says, noncommittal. For a guy who busts out in Old Cybertronian anthems that last several hours at a stretch, he's being remarkably incoherent, here. But he spreads his legs further as his free hand marches up Whirl's back to find another seam and start working its way to another line of wires, skating down the line of Whirl's armor with a light, steady pressure. The mech is relentless.

Whirl can take a hint. Just. _How_. "Words, mech, use your words," he demands, which earns him another unimpressed look from Cyclonus. The fingers carding through his wires slow another torturous fraction.

(It's tempting to sabotage the whole thing by doing something unforgivably stupid. There's still time for Whirl to get a little too rough and get tossed out on his aft! Or to provoke Cyclonus into responding in kind. He wants it hard and fast and ruined, so he can get the regret over with.)

He's ginger at first. Because again - not a total slaghead! And it's been a few years now, so. Yeah. He skims over the thin, dark wires, visions of crush damage dancing in his head. Whirl is horribly familiar with how unreliable his claws are about snapping shut if he tries to hold them slightly apart, after countless wasted hours and ruined clock components. He pulls back to peer at what he's doing, because slag help them if he can't see what he's doing down there, and Cyclonus huffs in protest. Too bad.

His valve's hot when Whirl finally presses the outside curve of the claw between his legs - between that and the steady rise of Cyclonus's vents, Whirl guesses he's getting _something_ here - but not wet. Which makes sense, 'cause Whirl would have noticed a wet valve right next to his knee a lot earlier than he did, to be honest. He leans in, applying pressure as he rocks his claw, and Cyclonus audibly snaps his dentae together as he jerks into the touch.

Whirl is going to be smug about this. Just gonna jot that one down, so he doesn't forget. Cyclonus's right foot jolts along the berth with a metallic shriek when Whirl rocks into the warm, dry curve of his valve, and Cyclonus rakes his claws down Whirl's wires with a low snarl. The hand in Whirl's back drags free, which Whirl protests for exactly .5 seconds before Cyclonus hauls him in close and drags them both into overload with raw electric charge. The shock rolls through Whirl's already sensitive lines, and his processor whites out as the spasm works its way through his system.

Guh. Uh.

Wait.

Whirl tries to retrieve his claw. His frame doesn't want to uncurl where he coiled against Cyclonus, and Cyclonus growls again in protest as Whirl unlocks his neck to squint properly at Cyclonus's very dry valve. There is no fragging way Cyclonus got _that_ charged up just from fiddling with Whirl's wires, not without any other sign. Whirl's valve situation is frankly embarrassing, at the moment, which is why he would like to thank Rung and also Primus that his panel is automated. "What - but -"

And then it clicks. "…You really are ancient," Whirl says, in awe. Seriously, how old do you have to be for your valve to still be primarily an electrical port? No self-lubrication, no fluids: just a softer, larger dataport for cords. That is some _old_ equipment. Whirl draws it out, because he has no self-control. "A - n - c - i - e -"

Cyclonus's grumble is still a low growl in his engine as he slings an arm around Whirl's neck and drags him down. "Enough."

Aw, he's grumpy. That's hilarious and definitely not adorable. Though suggesting as much might be an easy ticket out of here for the night. Otherwise, Cyclonus is doing his one-mech best to lock Whirl down in a sleeper hold, and Whirl's too scattered from coming down from an abrupt whiteout overload to slither to freedom. Whirl eyes the edge of the berth warily, and sticks with the easier excuse. There's not a lot of wiggle room here, and neither of them are small mechs. "Hate to break it to you, but this slab ain't big enough for the -"

Cyclonus surges up with another warning rumble. Whirl squeaks as he seizes Cyclonus to keep from flying off the berth. Cyclonus detaches him with ruthless efficiency, his default scowl extra squinty as he dumps Whirl on his butt. Whirl sits there, vaguely offended, and watches with bemused incomprehension as Cyclonus stalks over to the other recharge slab - and rips it right out of the wall.

Whirl's optic pops all the way open.

Cyclonus's expression never changes as he drags the slab over and jams it back into the wall slot, immediately adjacent to the one Whirl's sitting on. Technically, they're designed to be adjustable like that, but Cyclonus apparently doesn't give a stone cold frag about undoing safety clamps.

Cool. That was. A solution to said problem. One that Whirl is suddenly too turned on to argue with. Huh. "…Alright then," Whirl says aloud, as Cyclonus lays back down. There's a lot more real estate now. Despite that, Cyclonus rearranges himself stiffly and then drags Whirl toward him, one arm wrapped around Whirl's waist. Whirl glances toward the door, still sitting up, and contemplates cutting his losses and doing a runner.

But once Cyclonus is down, he's immovable. His arm is an iron bar of dead weight, and when Whirl strokes the bottom of his helm and glances down to assess his odds, Cyclonus is glaring up at him with narrow, unamused optics. The kind of optics that promise a swift death if there are any more interrupts to old man nap time.

…Right. Whirl drops onto his back with a clank. He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, and then squirms around so he faces away from Cyclonus. It takes a lot of floundering to get his knobby limbs comfortable, particularly when he's uneasy about what this whole situation implies. What Cyclonus might think he's getting here, after months of - stuff. Things. Terrifying things.

"I don't _do_ relationships, okay? Got it?" he says, after a pause. He hunches his shoulders and folds his arms as he stares out into the dark of the room, curling around and away from Cyclonus's diabolical arm.

Cyclonus answers with the resigned, stoic fortitude of someone explaining the obvious. "You are not incapable," he reminds Whirl.

And that, as far as Cyclonus's end of the argument is concerned, seems to be that.

Oh, slag.

He's _so_ screwed.

**Author's Note:**

> Some [links](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=peFaMcnqCwM), if [people](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjmmxX5U2VM) want [them](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1MKUJN7vUk).


End file.
